We cut our teeth in the bedroom.
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We slit our wrists in our costumes.
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All of them, witches, witches, witches, witches!
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We are the death of the party.
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We are the life of the funeral.
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All of us, ragmen, ragmen, ragmen, ragmen!
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I want the ripened fruit.
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I want the fresh meat.
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I want the first born.
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I want the down beat.
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We traded vows on the front line.
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They ushered us through the stop sign.
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All of them witches, witches, witches, witches!
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We found our way in the blackout.
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We are the ghosts in the lighthouse.
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All of us, ragmen, ragmen, ragmen, ragmen!
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I want the open wound.
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I want the dark street.
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I want the virgin blood.
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I want that wet heat.
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Roman Holiday
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Every Time I Die |